Rakes Vow

Chapter 17

Two days later, Vane stalked up the steps of Number 22 Aldford Street, on his way to see Patience. If she wasn't ready to drive out with him this morning, there'd be trouble.

He was not in a good mood.

He hadn't been for the past two days.

After last leaving Patience in Aldford Street, his temper gnashing at the bit, he'd gone off to seek refuge at White's to calm down and think. He'd assumed, given their closeness, how much of himself he'd already revealed to her, that she wouldn't-couldn't possibly-confuse him with her father. He'd obviously assumed wrong. Her attitude, her comments, made it plain she was judging him against Reginald Debbington's standard-and was failing to perceive any significant difference.

His initial reaction had been a violent hurt he had not, even now, entirely suppressed. After her earlier efforts that had sent him fleeing from Bellamy Hall, he'd thought he'd surmounted "hurt." He'd been wrong on that score, too.

Sunk in a quiet corner of White's, he'd spent fruitless hours composing terse, pithy speeches designed to elucidate precisely how and in what manner he differed from her sire-a man to whom family had meant little. His periods had grown increasingly forceful; in the end, he'd jettisoned phrases in favor of action. That, as all Cynsters well knew, spoke far louder than words.

Judging that, by that time, the damage within the family had already been done, he'd swallowed his pride and gone to call on Honoria-to ask, innocently, if she might consider giving one of her impromptu balls. Just for family and friends. Such a ball would be a useful tool in his avowed endeavor-to convince Patience that, to him as for all the Cynsters, the word "family" meant a great deal.

Honoria's wide eyes, and thoughtful consideration, had set his teeth on edge. But her agreement that an impromptu ball might, perhaps, be a good idea had gone some way to easing his temper. Leaving Devil's duchess to her plans, he'd retired to formulate his own. And to brood, darkly.

By the time yesterday morning had dawned, and he'd again set his horses' heads for Aldford Street, he'd come to the conclusion that there had to be more-more than just a simple misconception holding Patience back from marriage. He was absolutely certain what style of woman he'd chosen; he knew, soul-deep, that his reading of her was not wrong. Only a powerful reason would force a woman such as she, with so much affection and devotion to give, to view marriage as an unacceptable risk.

There was something more-something he had not yet learned about her parents' marriage.

He'd climbed the steps of Number 22 determined to learn what that something was-only to be informed Miss Debbington was not available to go driving with him. She had, it seemed, been seduced by the Bruton Street modistes. His temper had taken a downhill turn.

Luckily for Patience, Minnie had been watching for him. Unexpectedly spry, she'd claimed his escort for her promised stroll along the graveled walks of Green Park. On the way, she'd gaily informed him that, by some stroke of benign fate, Honoria had happened on Patience in Bruton Street the afternoon before, and had insisted on introducing her to her favored modiste, Celestine, the result being the fitting Patience was then attending for a series of gowns including, Minnie had taken great delight in assuring him, a positively dashing golden evening gown.

Arguing with benign fate was impossible. Even if, by virtue of Edith Swithins who had joined them for the stroll, said fate had ensured he had no chance to question Minnie about Patience's father, and the depths of his ignominy.

An hour later, reassured that Minnie's constitution was fully restored, he'd returned her to Number 22, only to discover Patience still absent. Leaving a tersely worded message with Minnie, he'd departed to find distraction elsewhere.

Today, he wanted Patience. If he had his way, he'd have Patience, but that was unlikely. Privacy of that sort, in the present circumstances, was unlikely to be on offer-and he had a wary premonition he'd be unwise to embark on any further seductive manuevers until he had their relationship on a steady, even keel.

With his hand firmly on the tiller.

Sligo opened the door to his peremptory knock. With a curt nod, Vane strode in. And stopped dead.

Patience was in the hall, waiting-the sight literally stole his breath. As his gaze, helplessly, slid over her, over the soft green merino pelisse, severely cut and snugly fitted, its upstanding collar framing her face, over the tan gloves and half boots, over the pale green skirts peeking beneath the pelisse's hem, Vane felt something inside him tighten, click, and lock.

Breathing was suddenly more difficult than if someone had buried a fist in his gut.

Her hair, glinting in the light streaming in through the door, was coiffed differently, to more artfully draw attention to her wide golden eyes, to the creaminess of her forehead and cheeks, and the delicate yet determined line of her jaw. And the soft vulnerability of her lips.

In some far corner of his thoroughly distracted brain, Vane uttered a thank-you to Honoria, then followed it with a curse. Before had been bad enough. How the hell was he supposed to cope with this?

Chest swelling, he forced his mind to draw back. He focused on Patience's face-and read her expression. It was calm, untinged by any emotion. She was dutifully waiting-as required by their plans-there was nothing more, so her expression declared, behind her drive with him.

It was her "dutiful" stance that did it-pricked his temper anew. Fighting to keep a scowl from his face, he nodded curtly and held out his arm. "Ready?"

Something flickered in her large eyes, but the hall was too dim for him to identify the emotion. Lightly, she inclined her head and glided forward to take his arm.

Patience sat, stiffly erect, on the box seat of Vane's curricle, and struggled to breathe through the iron cage locked about her chest. At least he couldn't disapprove of her appearance; she'd been assured, both by Celestine and Honoria, that her new pelisse and bonnet were all the crack. And her new gown, beneath it, was a definite improvement over her old one. Yet from his reaction, it seemed her appearance was of little consequence. She hadn't, she reminded herself sternly, really expected it would be. She'd bought the gowns because she hadn't refurbished her wardrobe for years and now seemed the perfect opportunity. After they caught the thief-and the Spectre-and Gerrard had acquired sufficient town bronze, she and he would retire once more to Derbyshire. She would probably never come to London again.

She'd bought a new wardrobe because it was the sensible thing to do, and because it wasn't reasonable to force Vane Cynster, elegant gentleman, to appear in public with a dowd.

Not that he seemed to care either way. Patience suppressed a sniff and tilted her chin. "As I told you, Mrs. Chadwick and Angela visited Bruton Street on our first afternoon. Angela dragged us into every modiste's establishment, even those designing for the dowagers. And asked the price of everything in sight. It was really most embarrassing. Luckily, the answers she received eventually took their toll. She seems to have accepted that it might be more practical to have a seamstress in to make up some gowns for her."

Eyes on his horses, Vane humphed. "Where were Angela and Mrs. Chadwick while you were in Celestine's?"

Patience colored. "Honoria came upon us in Bruton Street. She insisted on introducing me to Celestine-and things"-she gestured-"went on from there."

"Things have a habit of going that way once Honoria's involved."

"She was very kind," Patience retorted. "She even engaged Mrs. Chadwick and Angela in conversation all the while I was with Celestine."

Vane wondered how much Honoria was going to make him pay for that. And in what coin.

"Luckily, being able to haunt Celestine's salon and talk to a duchess quite buoyed Angela's spirits. We went on to Bond Street without further dramas. Neither Mrs. Chadwick nor Angela showed any hint of wanting to speak to any of the jewelers whose establishments we passed, nor in meeting anyone else along the way."

Vane grimaced. "I really don't think it's either of them. Mrs. Chadwick's bone-honest, and Angela's too witless."

"Indeed." Patience's tone turned ascorbic. "So witless nothing would do but she must cap the afternoon with a visit to Gunter's. Nothing would dissuade her. It was full to bursting with young sprigs, too many of whom spent the time ogling her. She wanted to go again yesterday afternoon-Mrs. Chadwick and I took her to Hatchards instead."

Vane's lips twitched. "She must have enjoyed that."

"She moaned the whole time." Patience shot him a glance. "That's all I have to report. What have the gentlemen been up to?"

"Sight-seeing." Vane uttered the word with loathing. "Henry and Edmond have been possessed by some demon which compells them to set eyes on every monument within the metropolis. Luckily, Gerrard is happy enough to go along and keep a watchful eye on them. So far, he's had nothing to report. The General and Edgar have settled on Tattersalls as the focus of their daily interest. Sligo or one of his minions follows and keeps watch, so far to no avail. I've been arranging their afternoons and evenings. The only ones who've not yet stirred from the house are the Colbys." Vane glanced at Patience. "Has Alice emerged from her room?"

"Not for long." Patience frowned. "She may actually have been the same at Bellamy Hall. I'd imagined her in the gardens, or in one of the parlors, but she might have stayed in her room the whole time. It's really rather unhealthy."

Vane shrugged.

Patience glanced sideways, studying his face. He'd headed his horses down a less-frequented drive, away from the fashionable avenue. While there were carriages about, they didn't need to exchange greetings. "I haven't had a chance to speak to Sligo, but I presume he found nothing?"

Vane's expression turned grim. "Not a thing. There was no clue in the luggage. Sligo's surreptitiously searching all the rooms in case the stolen items were somehow smuggled in."

"Smuggled? How?"

"Edith Swithins's tatting bag springs to mind."

Patience stared. "You don't think she…?"

"No. But it's possible someone else has noticed how deep that bag is, and is using it for the pearls, if nothing else. How often do you think Edith empties the bag out?"

Patience grimaced. "Probably never."

Vane came to an intersection and turned smartly to the right. "Where is Edith now?"

"In the drawing room-tatting, of course."

"Does her chair face the door?"

"Yes." Patience frowned. "Why?"

Vane shot her a glance. "Because she's deaf."

Patience continued to frown, then understanding dawned. "Ah."

"Precisely. So…"

"Hmm." Patience's expression turned considering. "I suppose…"

Half an hour later, the drawing-room door at Number 22 opened; Patience looked in. Edith Swithins sat on the chaise facing the door, tatting furiously. Her large knitted bag sat on the rug beside the chaise. There was no one else present.

Smiling brightly, Patience entered, and set the door to, ensuring the latch did not fall home. Just how deaf Edith was they didn't know. With determined cheerfulness, she swept down on Edith.

Who looked up-and returned her smile.

"I'm so glad I caught you," Patience began. "I've always wanted to learn how to tat. I wonder if you could show me the basics?"

Edith positively beamed. "Why of course, dear. It's really quite simple." She held up her work.

Patience squinted. "Actually"-she looked around-"perhaps we should move over by the window. The light's much better there."

Edith chuckled. "I must confess I really don't need to see the stitches, I've been doing it for so long." She eased off the chaise. "I'll just get my bag…"

"I'll get it." Patience reached for the bag-and inwardly conceded Vane was right. It was deep, full, and surprisingly heavy. It definitely needed to be searched. Hefting the bag, she whirled. "I'll pull that chair into place for you."

By the time Edith, cradling her work in progress, had crossed the room, Patience had a deep armchair positioned facing the window, its back to the door. Placing the tatting bag beside it, hidden from the occupant by the overhang of the arm, she helped Edith into the chair. "Now if I sit here, on the window seat, there'll be plenty of light for us both to see."

Obligingly, Edith settled back. "Now." She held up her work. "The first thing to note…"

Patience gazed at the fine threads. At the edge of her vision, the door slowly opened. Vane entered, and carefully shut the door. On silent feet, he drew closer. A board creaked under his weight. He froze. Patience tensed. Edith blithely chatted on.

Patience breathed again. Vane glided forward, then sank out of sight behind Edith's chair. From the corner of her eye, Patience saw Edith's tatting bag slide away.

She forced herself to listen to Edith's lecture, forced herself to follow enough to ask sensible questions. Beaming with pride, Edith imparted her knowledge; Patience encouraged and admired, and hoped the Almighty would forgive her her perjury, given it was committed in the pursuit of justice.

Hunkered down behind the chair, Vane poked about in the bag, then, realizing the futility of that, gingerly upended it on the rug. The contents, a welter of odds and ends, many unidentifiable, at least, to him, rolled out on the soft pile. He spread them, frowning, trying to recall the list of items pilfered over the past months. Whatever, Minnie's pearls were not in the tatting bag.

"And now," Edith said, "we just need a crochet hook…" She looked to where her tatting bag had been placed.

"I'll get it." Patience crouched, eyes down, hands reaching as if the bag was actually there. "A crochet hook," she repeated.

"A fine one," Edith added.

Crochet hook. A fine one. Behind the chair, Vane stared at the array of unnameable implements. What the hell was a crochet hook? What did it look like-fine or otherwise? Frantically examining and discarding various items in tor-toiseshell, his fingers finally closed about a thin wand sprouting a fine steel prong, hooked at the end-a miniature fisherman's net hook.

"I know it's there somewhere." Edith's voice, slightly querulous, jolted Vane to action. Reaching around the chair back, he slid the implement into Patience's outstretched palm.

She clutched it. "Here it is!"

"Oh, good. Now, we just put it in here, like this…"

While Edith continued her lesson, and Patience dutifully learned, Vane stuffed the contents of the tatting bag back into the gaping maw. Giving the bag a shake to settle it, he eased it back into position beside the chair. Moving with intense care, he stood and crept to the door.

Hand on the knob, he glanced back; Patience did not look up. Only when he'd regained the front hall, with the drawing room door securely closed, did he breathe freely again.

Patience joined him in the billiard room half an hour later.

Blowing aside the fine errant curls tangling with her lashes, she met his gaze. "I now know more about tatting than I could possibly need to know, even should I live to be a hundred."

Vane grinned. And leaned over the table.

Patience grimaced. "I take it there was nothing there?"

"Nothing." Vane lined up his next shot. "No one's using Edith's tatting bag as a store, presumably because, once something goes in, it might never be found again."

Patience stifled a giggle. She watched as Vane shifted, lining up the ball. As at Bellamy Hall, when she'd watched from the conservatory, he'd taken off his coat. Under his tight waistcoat, muscles rippled, then tensed. He clipped the ball neatly, sending it rolling into the pocket opposite.

Vane straightened. He looked at Patience, and noted her fixed gaze. Lifting his cue from the table, he sauntered closer. And stopped directly in front of her.

She blinked, then drew in a quick breath and dragged her gaze up to his face.

Vane captured her gaze. After a moment, he murmured, "I foresee certain complications."

"Oh?" Patience's gaze had already drifted from his, fastening instead on his lips.

Leaning more heavily on the cue, Vane let his gaze roam her face. "Henry and Edmond." The curves of her lips caught and held his attention. "They're getting restless."

"Ah." The tip of Patience's tongue appeared between her lips, then delicately traced them.

Vane hauled in a desperate breath. And leaned closer. "I can hold their reins during the day, but the evenings…" He angled his head. "Could be a problem."

His words died away as Patience stretched upward.

Their lips touched, brushed, then locked. Both stopped breathing. Vane's hands closed tight about the billiard cue; Patience shivered. And sank into the kiss.

"He must be in the billard room."

Vane's head jerked up; he swore and shifted, screening Patience from the door. She scooted farther into the shadows beyond the table, where her blush would be less visible. Along with the heat in her eyes. The door swung open and Vane was potting a ball with nonchalant ease.

"There you are!" Henry ambled into the room.

Followed by Gerrard and Edmond.

"Seen enough sights for one day." Henry rubbed his hands together. "Perfect time for a quick game."

"Not for me, I fear." Coolly, Vane handed his cue to Gerrard, and resisted the urge to throttle them all. He reached for his coat. "I only dallied to tell you I'll come by at three. I'm expected elsewhere for lunch."

"Oh. All right." Henry cocked a brow at Edmond. "You game?"

Edmond, having exchanged a smile with Patience, shrugged. "Why not?"

Gerrard, with a nod for his sister, joined them. Her pulse thundering, still breathless, Patience preceded Vane as he left the room.

She heard the door shut behind them, but didn't stop. She didn't dare. She led the way into the front hall; only then did she turn and, with what calm she could muster, face Vane.

He looked down at her. His lips twisted wryly. "I meant what I said about Henry and Edmond. I've agreed to take Gerrard, Edgar, and the General to White's this evening. Henry and Edmond don't want to go, and we couldn't keep them in sight if they did. Any chance you could call them to heel?"

The look Patience cast him spoke volumes. "I'll see what I can do."

"If you can keep them on their leashes, I'll be forever grateful."

Patience studied the glint in his grey eyes and wondered how to best use such indebtedness. Just what she might have him do. Then she realized her gaze had refastened on his lips. She blinked and nodded curtly. "I'll try."

"Do." Capturing her gaze, Vane raised one finger and traced the line of her cheek. Then lightly tapped. "Later." With a nod, he strode for the door.

For Patience, Lady Hendricks's musicale that evening proved to be an eminently forgettable experience. As well as herself, Minnie and Timms, all three Chadwicks, and Edmond, attended.

Inducing Henry and Edmond to join the party had been simplicity itself; over luncheon, she'd blithely asked Gerrard to escort their otherwise all-female party that evening. Put on the spot, Gerrard had blushed and stumbled into an apology; from the corner of her eye, Patience had seen Henry and Edmond glance surreptitiously at each other. Before Gerrard got to the end of his explanation, Henry interrupted to offer his services. Edmond, recalling the connection between music and drama, declared he would come, too.

As they crossed the threshold of Lady Hendricks's music room, Patience congratulated herself on her masterful success.

They made their bows to their hostess, then passed on, into the already crowded room. In Minnie's wake, Patience walked on Edmond's arm. Henry's had been claimed by his mother. Minnie and Timms were well-known; those greeting them nodded and smiled at Patience, too. Garbed in a new gown, she returned the greetings serenely, inwardly amazed at the confidence imparted by a sheath of moss green silk.

Timms steered Minnie to a half-vacant chaise. They took possession of the free space, striking up a conversation with the lady already ensconced in the other corner. Leaving the rest of the party milling aimlessly.

With an inward sigh, Patience took charge. "There's a chair over there, Henry. Perhaps you might fetch it for your mama."

"Oh. Right." Henry strode to where a chair remained unclaimed by the wall. At the exhortation of their hostess, all the guests were settling; seating was suddenly in short supply.

They sat Mrs. Chadwick beside Minnie's chaise.

"What about me?" Angela, gowned in a white dress overendowed with pink rosettes and cerise ribbon, stood twisting her fingers in said ribbon.

"There're some chairs over there." Edmond indicated a few empty seats in the ranks of straight-backed chairs lined up before the pianoforte and harp.

Patience nodded. "We'll sit there."

They headed for the chairs. They'd almost gained their objective when Angela balked. "I think the other side might be better."

Patience was not deceived. The few youthful sprigs forced by their mamas to attend had clumped in a petulant group on the other side of the room. "Your mama would expect you to sit with your brother." Deftly twining arms, she anchored Angela to her side. "Young ladies who venture about on their own rapidly gain a reputation for being fast."

Angela pouted. And cast longing looks across the room. "It's only a few yards away."

"A few yards too many." Reaching the vacant chairs, Patience sat, dragging Angela down beside her. Edmond slid into the chair on Patience's left; rather than sit beside his sister, Henry opted to sit behind Patience. As the performers appeared to polite applause, Henry shuffled his chair forward, hissing sotto voce to Angela to move aside.

Disapproving glances were cast their way. Patience turned her head and glared. Henry desisted.

With an inward sigh of relief, Patience settled in her chair and prepared to give her attention to the music.

Henry leaned forward and hissed in her ear: "Quite a smart gathering, isn't it? Daresay this is how foraush ladies spend most of their evenings."

Before Patience could react, the pianist laid her fingers on the keys and commenced a prelude, one of Patience's favorites. Inwardly sighing, she prepared to sink into the comfort of the familiar strains.

"Bach." Edmond leaned closer, head nodding with the beat. "A neat little piece. Designed to convey the joys of spring. Odd choice for this time of year."

Patience closed her eyes and clamped her lips shut. And heard Henry shift behind her shoulder.

"The harp sounds like spring rains, don't you think?"

Patience gritted her teeth.

Edmond's voice reached her. "My dear Miss Debbington, are you feeling quite the thing? You look rather pale."

Her hands tightly clasped in her lap against the urge to box a few ears, Patience opened her eyes. "I fear," she murmured, "that I might be developing a headache."

"Oh."

"Ah."

Blessed silence reigned-for all of half a minute.

"Perhaps if…"

Hands clenched tight, Patience closed her eyes, closed her lips, and wished she could close her ears. The next second, she felt a definite pang behind her temples.

Denied the music, denied all natural justice, she fell back on imagining the reward she would claim in recompense for the destruction of her evening. When next she saw Vane. Later. Whenever that proved to be.

At least Edith Swithins and the Colbys had had the good sense to stay home.

At precisely that moment, in the hallowed half gloom of the cardroom of White's, Vane, his gaze on the General and Edgar, both seated at a table playing whist, took a slow sip of the club's excellent claret and reflected that Patience's evening would not be-could not be-more boring than his.

Hanging back in the shadows, cloaked in the quiet, restrained ambience, redolent with the masculine scents of fine leather, cigar smoke, and sandalwood, he'd been forced to decline numerous invitations, forced to explain, with a languidly raised brow, that he was bear-leading his godmother's nephew. That, in itself, had raised no eyebrows. The fact that he apparently believed bear-leading precluded sitting down to a game of cards had.

He could hardly explain his real aim.

Stifling a yawn, he scanned the room, easily picking out Gerrard, watching the play at the hazard table. The interest Gerrard showed was academic-he seemed to harbor no deep wish to join in the play.

Making a mental note to inform Patience that her brother showed little susceptibility to the lure that brought too many men low, Vane straightened, eased his shoulders, then returned to propping the wall.

Five totally uneventful minutes later, Gerrard joined him.

"Any action yet?" Gerrard nodded to the table at which Edgar and the General sat.

"Not unless you count the General getting clubs confused with spades."

Gerrard grinned, and glanced over the room. "This doesn't seem a likely place for someone to pass on stolen goods."

"It is, however, a very good venue in which to unexpectedly bump into an old friend. Neither of our two pigeons, however, is showing any signs of wanting to curtail their scintillating activity."

Gerrard's grin broadened. "At least it makes watching them easy enough." He glanced at Vane. "I can manage here if you'd like to join your friends. I'll fetch you if they move."

Vane shook his head. "I'm not in the mood." He gestured to the tables. "Seeing we're here, you may as well widen your horizons. Just don't accept any challenges."

Gerrard laughed. "Not my style." He moved off again to stroll between the tables, many surrounded by gentlemen vicariously enjoying the play.

Vane sank back into the shadows. He hadn't been tempted, even vaguely, to take Gerrard up on his offer. At present, he was in no good mood to join in the usual camaraderie over a pack of cards. At present, his mind was entirely consumed by one unanswered question, by one conundrum, by one glaring anomaly.

By Patience.

He desperately needed to talk to Minnie, alone. Patience's home life, her father, held the key-the key to his future.

This evening had been wasted: no headway had been made. On any level.

Tomorrow would be different. He'd see to it.

The next morning dawned bright and clear. Vane strode up the steps of Number 22 as early as he dared. In the far distance, a bell tolled-eleven deep bongs. Face set, Vane grasped the knocker. Today, he was determined to see progress.

Two minutes later, he strode back down the steps. Leaping into his curricle, he flicked the reins free, barely waiting for Duggan to scramble up behind before setting the greys clattering toward the park.

Minnie had hired a brougham.'

He knew the instant he spotted them that something momentous had occurred. They were-there was no other word for it-aflutter. They were all there, packed into the brougham-Patience, Minnie, Timms, Agatha Chadwick, Angela, Edith Swithins and, amazing though it seemed, Alice Colby. She was dressed in something so dark and drab it might have been widow's weeds; the others looked much more inviting. Patience, gowned in a stylish walking dress of fresh green, looked good enough to eat.

Drawing his curricle up behind the brougham, Vane reined in his appetites along with his horses, and languidly descended to the verge.

"You've just missed Honoria," Minnie informed him before he'd even reached the carriage. "She's holding one of her impromptu balls and has invited us all."

"Indeed?" Vane summoned his most innocent look.

"A real ball!" Angela jigged up and down on the seat. "It'll be simply wonderfull I'll have to get a new ball gown."

Agatha Chadwick nodded in greeting. "It was very kind of your cousin to invite us all."

"I haven't been to a ball since I don't know when." Edith Swithins beamed at Vane. "It'll almost be an adventure."

Vane couldn't help returning her smile. "When's it to be?"

"Hasn't Honoria told you?" Minnie frowned. "I thought she said you knew-it's next Tuesday."

"Tuesday." Vane nodded, as if committing the fact to memory. He looked at Patience.

"Giddy nonsense, balls." Alice Colby very nearly sniffed. "But as the lady's a duchess, I daresay Whitticombe will say we must go. At least it's sure to be a suitably refined and dignified affair." Alice made the comment to the world at large. Concluding, she shut her pinched lips and stared straight ahead.

Vane stared, po-faced, at her. So did Minnie and Timms. All of them had attended impromptu balls Honoria had given. With all the Cynsters gathered in one room, refined and dignified tended to be overwhelmed by robust and vigorous. Deciding it was time Alice learned how the other half lived, Vane merely raised a brow and returned his attention to Patience.

At precisely the same moment she looked at him. Their gazes met and held; inwardly, Vane cursed. He needed to talk to Minnie; he wanted to talk to Patience. With her sitting there, waiting for him to invite her for a stroll, he couldn't ask Minnie instead. Not without adding to his problems, without leaving Patience feeling that he had, after all, started to ease back in his affections.

His affections, which were currently ravenous. Starved. Slavering for attention. And her.

He raised a languid brow. "Would you care for a stroll, Miss Debbington?"

Patience saw the hunger in his eyes, briefly, fleetingly, but quite clearly enough to recognize. The vise already locked about her chest tightened. Inclining her head graciously, she held out one gloved hand-and struggled to suppress the thrill that raced through her when his fingers closed strongly about hers.

He opened the door and handed her down. She turned to the carriage. Mrs. Chadwick smiled; Angela pouted. Edith Swithins positively grinned. Minnie, however, fluffed up her shawls and exchanged a quick glance with Timms.

"Actually," Timms said, "I rather think we should be getting back. The breeze is a mite chilly."

It was an Indian summer's day. The sun shone brightly, the breeze was almost balmy.

"Humph! Perhaps you're right," Minnie grumbled gruffly. She shot a glance at Patience. "No reason you can't go for your stroll-Vane can bring you home in his curricule. I know how much you miss your rambles."

"Indeed. We'll see you back at the house later." Timms poked the coachman with the tip of her parasol. "Home, Cedric!"

Left on the verge staring bemusedly after the carriage, Patience shook her head. Vane's arm appeared beside her. Placing her fingers on his sleeve, she glanced up into his face. "What was all that about?"

His eyes met hers. His brows rose. "Minnie and Timms are inveterate matchmakers. Didn't you know?"

Patience shook her head again. "They've never behaved like that with me before."

They'd never had him in their sights before either. Vane kept that thought to himself and guided Patience across the lawn. There were many couples strolling close to the carriageway. As they nodded and smiled, returning greetings as they headed for less-crowded terrain, Vane let his senses revel in the experience of having Patience once more by his side. He'd drawn her as close as propriety allowed; her green skirts swished against his boots. She was all woman, soft and curvaceous, mere inches away; he grew harder simply at the thought. The breeze, wafting past, lifted her perfume to his face-honeysuckle, roses, and that indefinable scent that evoked every hunter's instinct he possessed.

Abruptly, he cleared his throat. "Nothing happened last evening?" It was an effort to lift his voice from the gravelly depths to which it had sunk.

"Nothing." Patience slanted him a sharp, slightly curious glance. "Distressingly, Edmond and Henry have reverted to their competitive worst. Stolen items, or the disposal of same, seemed exceedingly far from their minds. If either of them are the thief or the Spectre, I'll eat my new bonnet."

Vane grimaced. "I don't think your new bonnet's in any danger." He studied the stylish creation perched atop her curls. "Is this it?"

"Yes," Patience returned, somewhat waspishly. He could at least have noticed.

"I thought it looked different." Vane flicked the cockade perched over her eyebrow-and met her gaze with a far-too-innocent look.

Patience humphed. "I take it the General and Edgar made no suspicious moves last night?"

"Suspicious moves aplenty, but more along the line of being suspiciously foxed. More to the point, however, Masters has heard from the Hall."

Patience's eyes widened. "And?"

Vane grimaced. "Nothing." Looking forward, he shook his head. "I can't understand it. We know the items haven't been sold. We haven't found them in the luggage brought up to town. But they aren't at the Hall. Grisham and the staff have been very thorough-they even checked the wainscot for hidden panels. There are a few. I didn't tell Grisham where they were, but he found them all. Empty, of course-I'd checked before we left. They searched every room, every nook and cranny. They checked under loose floorboards. They also searched the grounds and the ruins. Thoroughly. Incidentally, they did find some disturbance just beyond the door of the abbot's lodge."

"Oh?"

"Someone had cleared off a section of the flags. There's an iron ring set in a stone-an old hatch. But the hatch hasn't been opened recently." Vane caught Patience's gaze. "Devil and I lifted it years ago-the cellar beneath was filled in. There's nothing beneath that stone, not even a hole in which something might be hidden. So it doesn't explain anything, least of all why Gerrard was struck down."

"Hmm." Patience frowned. "I'll ask him if he's remembered anything more about what he saw before he was hit."

Vane nodded absently. "Unfortunately, none of that sheds any light on our mystery. The puzzle of where the stolen goods, including Minnie's pearls, have gone darkens with every passing day."

Patience grimaced and briefly tightened her hold on his arm-simply because it seemed the right thing to do, to comfort and sympathize. "We'll just have to remain vigilant. On our guard. Something will happen." She looked up and met Vane's eyes. "It has to."

There was no arguing with that. Vane slid his free hand over her fingers, anchoring her hand on his sleeve.

They walked for some minutes in silence, then Vane glanced at Patience's face. "Are you excited by the prospect of Honoria's ball?"

"Indeed." Patience glanced fleetingly up at him. "I understand it's an honor to be invited. As you saw, Mrs. Chadwick and Angela are in alt. I can only hope awe is sufficient to overcome Henry. Edmond, however, will remain unimpressed. I'm sure he'll come.ibut I doubt even a ducal ball has sufficient weight to puncture his self-assurance."

Vane made a mental note to mention that to Honoria.

Patience glanced up at him, a frown in her eyes. "Will you be there?"

Vane raised his brows. "When Honoria issues a summons, we all fall in."

"You do?"

"She's Devil's duchess." When Patience's puzzled frown persisted; Vane elaborated: "He's the head of the family."

Looking ahead, Patience mouthed an "Oh." She was clearly still puzzled.

Vane's lips twisted wryly.

"There were two other ladies in the carriage with Honoria when she stopped to invite us." Patience looked at Vane. "I think they were Cynsters, too."

Vane kept his expression impassive. "What did they look like?"

"They were older. One was dark and spoke with a French accent. She was introduced as the Dowager."

"Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives-Devil's mother." His other godmother.

Patience nodded. "The other was brown-haired, tall, and stately-a Lady Horatia Cynster."

Vane's expression turned grim. "My mother."

"Oh." Patience glanced his way. "Both your mother and the Dowager were… very kind." She looked ahead. "I didn't realize. All three-Honoria and the other two ladies-seemed very close."

"They are." Resignation rang in Vane's tone. "Very close. The whole family's very close."

Mouthing another "Oh," Patience looked ahead again.

Glancing sidelong, Vane studied her profile, and wondered what she'd made of his mother-and what his mother had made of her. Not that he anticipated any resistance on that front. His mother would welcome his chosen bride with open arms. And a great deal of otherwise classified information and far-too-insightful advice. Within the Cynster clan, that was the way things were done.

A deep requirement, a need, for commitment to family, formed, he was now sure, part of Patience's bulwark, one part of the hurdle that stood between her and marriage. That was one element of her problem he barely needed to take aim at-all he needed to do was introduce her to his family to blow that part of her problem away.

Despite the sacrifices it demanded of him, St. Ives House next Tuesday night was definitely the right address to send her to. After she saw the Cynsters all together, in their natural setting, she would rest easy on that score.

She would see, and believe, that he cared about family. And then…

Unconsciously, his fingers tightened about hers; Patience looked up inquiringly.

Vane smiled-wolfishly. "Just dreaming."